In this article, I reflect on the profound emotional and cultural impact that statues have on a nation’s identity and collective memory. I explore how the presence of oppressive statues stifles freedom and spirit, while their removal sparks hope, resistance, and a reclaiming of national pride.
In memory of the 27th of Ordibehesht (May 17) and the statue-less days
A)
12 یاشلی ایدیم
رساملیق ائدردیم
شکیل‌لر چکردیم
همیشه "لالا"
آما ندنسه لالام
بنز‌ه‌مزدی کندیمیزین لالاسینا
بنزردی کیتاب لالاسینا
کئشکه دوشونجه‌می کندیمدن آلاردیم
کیتابدان یوخ
I was 12 years old.
I used to draw.
I drew pictures.
Always of a "nanny".
But my nanny
Didn’t resemble the one from our village,
She resembled the one from books.
If only I had taken my thoughts from my own village...
Not from books. [1]
I remember those faraway years. My 12-year-old days. The days I flew like a free bird with my classmates at school. We waited for the final school bell of the day — the bell of freedom. When it rang, we would run to the streets like stones being thrown. We would flap our wings like released birds.
It wasn’t the joy of arriving home, but the joy of being released from school.
But once we reached home, another kind of sorrow would envelop us.
While waiting for the teacher, our boredom would grow. Someone would say, “Our teacher won’t come this hour.” Freedom. Comfort. Peace. Another would finish a half-done assignment. Another would chat and laugh with someone nearby. Then suddenly, a heavy silence would suffocate the classroom. The supervisor would be staring out the window... Don’t think that gaze only disturbed those talking and laughing. No — even those writing their assignments or focused on the lesson would lose their peace under that gaze.
— What was there in those watching eyes that unsettled us?
B)
گؤز آچاندا حایاتا من باخیب گولدون اوزومه سن
دئدیم وطن وطن وطن آنا یوردوم آذربایجان
When I opened my eyes to life,
You smiled at me.
I said, “Homeland, homeland, homeland — my motherland Azerbaijan.”
It was the seventeenth day since he had opened his eyes to life. In his mother’s arms, together with his grandmother, he was exiled to distant lands. A few days earlier, his father had embraced him tightly for the first time. On the long roads of exile, his grandmother, with longing for her homeland, passed away saying, 'I have never been a captive — what is this captivity?'
ندن اینسان ایلک دؤنه
تورپاغا باش ووراندا
فرق ائله‌میر هایاندا
ندنسه سون نفسده
تورپاغا اوز قویاندا
فرق ائله‌ییر بو تورپاق
او تورپاق اولمایاندا
سورما بو قریبه حیس
تورپاق اوچون ندن‌دیر
تورپاق واردیرکی ایستی
تورپاق وار اوشدون‌دیر
تورپاق واردیرکی غوربت
تورپاق وارکی وطن‌دیر
Why is it that when people
Touch the soil for the first time
It makes no difference where they are?
But when it’s the last breath,
When one lays their face to the ground,
It matters whether that ground is truly "the homeland" or not.
Don't ask about this strange feeling —
It’s always for the land.
There are lands that are warm.
There are lands that are cold.
There are lands that are exile,
And lands that are homeland. [2]
Even though he lived more than seventy years, he had never seen Azerbaijan up close, but he learned to keep it alive in his heart.
He held the tar (a traditional string instrument) tightly to his chest.
He gathered exiled compatriots and comforted their souls.
They say that from those who had actually seen Azerbaijan, he had gathered so much knowledge about it that it was as if he had lived there for years — as if he knew every corner intimately.
He would host his listeners on the wings of imagination, sending them on a journey through our homeland;
Now we’re walking along the shores of Baku,
Now we’re wading knee-deep from Kur to Araz.
Even in his dreams, he could not find peace.
In his dreams, when wandering in Baku,
He would feel in his wings the heaviness of the gaze of the Russian ruler whose statue had been raised to the skies in the square.
— What is it about those dead statues staring from city squares?
C)
شن نغمه‌سیندن دولاندا تبریز
اختیار الینه آلاندا تبریز
باشیم آغارسا دا بیر اوغلان کیمی
باشیما گلنی ارمغان کیمی
ارکدن خلقیمه سپه‌جه‌یم من
When the sun’s melody swirls through Tabriz,
When Tabriz takes destiny into its own hands,
Even if my hair turns gray,
Like a young man,
I’ll scatter what falls upon my head
As a gift to my people — from the Ark. [4]
The year 1325 of the Solar Hijri calendar (1946 CE), on the 27th of Ordibehesht:
A statue is taken down in the squares of Tabriz, and another is erected in its place. The one taken down was of Reza Shah, and the one rising was of Sattar Khan. Although Reza Shah had fallen from power five years earlier, and lost his throne, the people still hadn’t fully gained their freedom.
That 27th of Ordibehesht, a statue was taken down in Tabriz, and another took its place. To those who brought it down, so long as racist statues stood in city squares and gazed at people, hearts could not find peace in their yearning for freedom. That day — the day of this great act — Was about putting an end to the era of “national nihilism” in Azerbaijan. Even if the National Government's life was short, even if the nation faced a great massacre, there were months of living without statues, without oppressive supervisors.
Carved from stone, poured from concrete — though they are dead, and lack will, statues can still affect people's spirits and resolve. One makes us joyful, excited, another wounds our hearts. Sometimes, to revive national sentiment, a statue of Attila is erected in Budapest. [5] Sometimes, to erase national thought, Tubiye Garden is emptied. [6]
— What is it about these dead statues in our cities’ squares? As they rise higher and higher, our world shrinks. Our thoughts shrink. The day they fall — freedom, comfort, peace. The spirit of rebellion surges.
— That’s why in every new era, the first act is to topple the ruler's statue.
Notes:
[1] Poem by Ibrahim Rashidi.
[2] Poem by Karim Gol Andam.
[3] From the life of Mohammad Amin Rasoulzadeh, a memory of exile in "Azar’s life".
[4] Poem by Mohammad-Taqi Zehtabi.
[5] During WWII, the Russian rulers manipulated the Hungarian people into war by falsely claiming they descended from Attila.
[6] In recent years, Tubi Park — once a national heritage park of Azerbaijan in Tabriz — has been emptied of all national symbols.
هئیکل سیز گونلر
Original Turkish Article:
https://web.archive.org/web/20140731045157/http://ruzbeh-s.blogfa.com/post-14.aspx